Page 2

Benji

You won’t find a town like Deadfall on any map. I know, because I’ve tried.

I checked before I came, zoomed in on my phone screen until the roads blurred, followed logging routes that dead-ended into nothing. Even the county lines don't match up properly.

In all reality, Deadfall shouldn't exist. And yet here I am, staring at the town sign while I puff on a cig in the parking lot of some run-down diner. My red Camaro purrs steadily as I lean against it, the exhaust blowing out plumes of smoke that mix with the mist clinging off the trees. Sunset paints the sky a bruised purple.

Out here, folks ain't real friendly. At least, not like they were back home. When my uncle first called about this job, I'd almost turned him down. Not only had I barely talked with the man in my short twenty-seven years of life, but Oregon's also a long way from Kansas. Everything I've ever known is back there.

An ancient flatbed truck pulls into the lot, and I flick my smoke onto the ground to crush it under the heel of my steel-toed boot. My eyes track the tires kicking up gravel, recognizing the chipped words on the side from the old photos that once lined my mom’s living room walls: Gale's Timber Hauling.

The truck is a little more beat up now than it was back then, and so is Gale himself when he slides out of the cab after parking next to me.

“Heya, kid,” my uncle greets, wrapping meaty arms around me. “Haven’t seen you since you were a little squirt.”

We might be related by blood, but we look nothing alike. Where he and Mom share similar features—dark hair, tan complexions, broad shoulders—my bony ass takes after my dad: ruddy curls, freckles, and all.

“This place is hard to find,” I tell him, shoving my fists in the pockets of my coat.

“That it is,” he chortles, slapping me on the back before gesturing toward the diner. “Let's get out of this cold. Paula makes a mean French onion dip.”

I turn off my car and follow him across the icy parking lot. “I'm serious. If it hadn't been for your directions, I'd have landed in a ditch. What kind of place isn't on Google Maps?”

Heat envelops us the moment we step inside, the smell of coffee and burnt muffins hitting my nostrils. Twangy music crackles from some ancient cliché jukebox in the corner, and dusty sports memorabilia covers the papered walls. A few patrons wave at us from booths when we pass—well, they wave at Gale. The moment they see me, their expressions turn wary.

“All that technological mumbo jumbo don't work out here,” Gale grunts, sliding onto a stool at the counter. It almost groans under his considerate weight. “We're in a dead zone, kid. That's why the town is named what it is.”

“How the hell do delivery drivers find the place, then?” I ask, taking the seat next to him.

“Old maps, but we hardly need anything. Most stuff we grow ourselves just fine.”

A man somewhere around my age side-eyes me, then scoots his seat farther away. I let my gaze drag over his worn clothes. “No department stores or malls, I'm guessing.”

Gale snorts at that. “Not for fifty miles. Gunner's wife runs the tailor shop on Main, though, if you need something fixed.”

I don't even know who Gunner is, let alone what a tailor shop is for, so I just sigh and check my phone again, more out of habit than anything else. No service, just like it's been since I crossed county lines. Great. Not only did I leave everyone I know behind, but I'm completely cut off from them, too. Not that it matters, I guess. Not like any of them are excited to hear from me after what happened.

“Well, who do we have here?” a feminine voice sings, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glance up to find a set of sapphire eyes framed in dark lashes studying me.

“Paula, this is my nephew,” Gale announces, slapping my back like we're best fucking buds instead of two estranged relatives. “Benji, this is Paula. She runs the diner.”

“Benji, huh?” The woman smiles, offering her hand after pouring us both a cup of coffee. She looks to be about forty or so, with laugh lines on her cheeks. Grabbable, curvy hips, too, and brown hair pulled back into a messy braid. Definitely pretty, and I'm far from picky.

“Short for Benjamin,” I grin, showing off by dusting a kiss across her knuckles.

Paula falls into a fit of adorable fucking giggles, which has my uncle rolling his eyes. “She's married to the sheriff, kid. Better watch it.”

Yeah, and married doesn't mean shit. I'd be the first to know that, unfortunately.

“Benji here is taking that empty guard position out at the mill,” Gale finishes, eyeing her over the rim of his mug.

Paula’s demeanor changes in a flash of pain. She yanks her hand back like my touch burns, lips thinning until they turn white. Even the light chatter in the diner dies down. An odd, electric feeling raises the hair on my arms, as if everyone's attention has zeroed in on our conversation.

“That mill ought to be shut down,” she snaps, glaring at my uncle. “Nothing good can come from it.”

“Paula, please. I know you're hurtin’, but what happened to Dennis was no one's fault⁠—”

The sound of the coffee pot shattering on the ground has Gale stopping short.